I Love You
by uss-hilson
Summary: Based off "The Softer Side" original airdate: Monday, February 22, 2009 . If you haven't seen Season 5 yet, then you might not want to read this as SPOILERS are enclosed! Please note, I've made some minor changes in regard to the happenings in the show.


**Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own any of the ideas or characters related to the show House, M.D. If I did, Hilson would have already occurred! Mwhahahahaha!!**

* * *

**I Love You**/a Hilson fic

Based off "The Softer Side" (original airdate: Monday, February 22, 2009)

* * *

Wilson had struggled with himself before he went to Cuddy and told her that House was their friend and he saw nothing wrong with the methadone if it made House happy and pain-free. Of course, he didn't truly believe that, but the thought of House leaving-- after he himself just returned to his position mere months ago, well, it was just unacceptable. He couldn't deal with it, couldn't deal with House not being at Princeton-Plainsboro. So, he went to Cuddy, he stated his case, and he hoped to hell that she would see things his way. She stood to lose a medical mastermind-- albeit a rather difficult one. Of course, Cuddy saw Wilson's plea as a selfless act, instead of what it really was, a completely selfish act. He didn't want House to go, didn't want to risk not seeing him every day. Wilson didn't want to face the prospect of getting through one lunch without having something snagged off his tray, or at least risking not having the potential to have his fruit cup or half his sandwich snatched.

He had wanted to run to House when he saw him in that dank alleyway with his fingers down his throat. He had hoped House would have been able to drink the bourbon, and his heart eased up a bit when the other man downed the shot glass' content. But catching him bent over, retching-- it felt like someone had shot him in the gut, a hot lead bullet tearing through his stomach, killing him from the inside out. He'd wanted to run up to House, turn him until they were face to face, stare directly into his fierce blue eyes, and smash their lips together. Sure, House would have just regurgitated his burger along with his drink, but it wouldn't have mattered. The only thing that would have mattered would have been feeling Greg's perpetual stubble pressed up against his perfectly smooth, shaven face.

Instead, he yelled at him. He confronted him. And what had happened? House had thrown his cane into the nearest dumpster before walking off into the night. Wilson should have followed him home. He should have pounded on his door until he answered-- or better yet, he should have let himself in with the key he never returned.

Too angry to avoid blowing up and causing a scene should he arrive at House's apartment, (where he would have been insisting House tell him the complete truth, including the name of the scum of a doctor who gave him the 'script in the first place), Wilson went home, defeated, the weight of the world causing his perfectly-polished Italian loafers to scrape against the asphalt. He let himself into Amber's old apartment-- his apartment, and collapsed onto the bed, loosening his tie and throwing it somewhere off the edge of the mattress. A deft hand slapped his alarm as he closed his eyes and fell asleep, hoping that the morning would come soon, lest he dream and replay the whole night's events.

The next morning Wilson had to rush through his routine, which was doubly hard as he felt hungover. He'd barely had anything to drink the night before- a sip of beer, nothing more, but his heart felt as if it had been ripped out and stomped upon. Not only was House leaving, but he was pissed. And, knowing House, he was stubborn enough to let their previous night's fight keep him away from Wilson for a long, long time. If was hard to keep relationships-- friendships afloat when one of the parties refused to talk to the other.

Wilson arrived to work the next morning yawning, almost running to the elevator, trying to get to his office as quickly as possible to avoid everyone. He was barely able to stay focused enough to answer questions during his 10 a.m. consult, trying to listen to his patient and formulate a plan to get House back at the same time. "Doctor, are you feeling alright," Mrs. Juarez asked him.

"What? Oh, yes. Yes. I'm fine. Thank you. I just had... a hard night."

"Trouble at home?"

"Uh, yes. We fought."

"My husband always brings me flowers after we fight. My favourite are orchids. He'll walk up to me, the orchids behind his back, and say, ' Baby, I am so sorry, me amour. You are my life, my everything, and I love you', and then he springs the flowers out! It works every time!"

Wilson smiled. "I don't think flowers are going to work for me, Mrs. Juarez, but..." he trailed off. Maybe saying "I love you" would.

After his consult Wilson grabbed his overcoat and left the building. He needed to walk, to think. That's when he came up with his plan of what he would tell Cuddy. After all, desperate times called for desperate measures...

After walking in and saying his piece, Wilson left Cuddy's office, unsure of how his plan would work out. He knew that the hospital administrator's feelings for House were complex as well, and that the complexities would most likely be what convinced Lisa Cuddy to give House a second chance. Because she cared for him, because-- at one point in their lives, she had wanted him, Lisa locked herself in her office and spent the next two and a half hours coming up with a treatment plan for House. She would administer his medicine, make sure he was being responsible, it would work. It had to work. She couldn't lose House-- he was far too valuable as an asset to the hospital. Some people like to come to work a half hour late, some people make personal calls on the hospital's lines, and some, well, some people liked to get themselves involved with all sorts of controlled substances. Cuddy sighed.

Around 3:30 House stepped into her office. Or, rather, a man resembling House, but with a clean-shaven face and a sharp gray suit stepped into her office.

"I'd like my letter of recommendation."

"Yes, I figured that, but I was too busy with this letter instead," Cuddy replied, handing House a sheet of paper entitled, "Methadone Treatment Plan".

"That's great, but I don't see why I'd be getting treated here if I'm working somewhere else." House knew what was coming, but he was going to make Cuddy say it herself. He wouldn't make her beg him, but he would make her get that look in her eye she got whenever she was worried about him and trying to make him see reason.

"I know." She had asked him to take his job back, and he accepted with a simple, "okay," before leaving her office. Of course, he didn't feel like going back to his office and dealing with his team, which would have inevitably ended up in Foreman's hands. Instead, he headed to the one other place he knew he could be alone-- Wilson's office.

House arrived before Wilson's door, careful not to let himself get spotted by Thirteen, Kutner, or the others. He knocked lightly, "Jimmy?" he said in a sing-song manner. No answer. Well, he thought, at least he couldn't be faulted for attempting to be polite. Looking around the hallway once more, House turned the knob to the door marked, "James Wilson, M.D. Head of Oncology" before walking in. To his surprise he saw Wilson at his desk, his face down in his criss-crossed arms. House would have thought he was asleep if he hadn't lifted his head immediately.

"House."

"Wilson," a smile formed on his lips.

"What, what are you doing here?" Wilson shook his head slightly, rousing himself as he sat upright in his chair.

"I'm stopping by to say hi. Tell you I took my old job back. Didn't get a pay raise, sadly, but I got a treatment plan instead." At this last bit House's blue eyes bored into Wilson's brown ones, testing him, telling him he knew that Wilson had talked to Cuddy and said something, although he wasn't exactly sure what.

"Really?" Wilson's brow furrowed as he stood up, standing next to his desk.

"Yep. Know anything about it?"

Wilson shrugged his shoulder and opened his mouth seconds before words came out, the way he always did when he was searching for an explanation. "I... didn't know about the plan, but I did tell Cuddy that I thought we should let you do what you needed to in order not to hurt anymore." He hadn't looked away when he responded-- he was telling the truth.

"Really? Dr. James Wilson told his boss that he thought it was okay for me to do drugs?"

Wilson sighed before responding. "Yes. The one and the same James Wilson who rolls joints for his patients who can't do it themselves. Hell, I've even bought pot for some of them, the ones who didn't have much income-wise."

House smiled. He knew about the "special cigarettes", but he didn't realise Wilson had been their supplier, too. "Why?"

"Why what? Why did I go out of my way to help you, my one and only friend? Do you really need to ask that?"

"Yeah, I do," House's voice lost its sardonic edge.

Wilson looked up at the ceiling, as if for answers. He rubbed the back of his neck, bracing himself for what he was going to say next. He was the only one who willingly spent time with House, both inside and away from the hospital. Despite everything, they'd been friends for all these years. Did he really need to ask?

"Because..." Wilson began, "well, why do you think I've put up with you all this time?"

"I don't know, you tell me." House's blue eyes glittered with both danger and amusement, teasing Wilson to give him an answer.

"Because--" Wilson stepped forward from beside his desk, closing the gap between them. He blinked once before lifting his left hand up to caress House's cheek, his fingers grazing House's lips, "Because, I love you." Wilson's voice was hesitant, yet forthcoming, truthful and resigned.

House's eyes softened, of course Wilson loved him. He'd loved him for years. No one else showed up on his door at 3 in the morning; would blindly and indiscriminately lend him money, or drug & kidnap him in an effort to get him to his "father's" funeral. Of course, Cuddy had a hand in the drugging, but back in those days he was more than happy to drop his drawers for her. No, only Wilson would put up with the shit House sometimes planned specifically to put him through. Only Wilson would tell Cuddy that he thought House doing drugs was a good thing. And only Wilson could truly make House laugh. If he had ever cared to actually think about it, House would have told himself thousands of times over by now that Wilson did, in fact, love him. Of course, if he had ever been truthful to himself... "I know," he replied, smiling at the man facing him. "I love you too. I can't ever imagine a time when I haven't." And it was that admission of love that he both received from and gave to Wilson that gave Dr. Gregory House the courage to face reality and suffer the pain in an effort to be better. Better than his leg, better than the pain, better than the methadone, better than any doctor he'd ever met. The next day, when Cuddy appeared in his office to give him his daily dose of happy juice, he threw it in the trash. He told her that it was because being pain-free affected his judgment as a doctor, but the real reason, the real reason was because someone had taken the chance to expose their heart to him, and in doing so, gave him the power and ability to do the same. Of course, the real reason was one he would always keep secret, except for his admission to Wilson. After all, besides the two of them, who else would ever need to know?

* * *

**The End**  
2/28/09 11:25 pm EST


End file.
